Wild Card
by schemester
Summary: Two years after the fall, Sherlock still realizes that he can't know all of the cards. He's betting on it.


Two years.

Seven hundred and thirty days before he begins to walk by 221b Baker Street once every evening or so. He does not act as if he knows the place, the shop beside it, the two people living inside the brick walls, and the one empty bedroom.

John is still oblivious, something that Sherlock had found irritating two years ago, but fortunate today. Well, perhaps oblivious is not the right word. No, definitely not. John is intelligent, just a bit shortsighted. Well, a lot. Considering the three times he has walked right past Sherlock, lost on his mobile phone in conversation, lost _somehow_. Even if Sherlock cannot see his eyes, can't look at them. Because Sherlock Holmes does not wear sunglasses unless there's a reason. And John Watson is not the glaring sun. Sunglasses tint the world, obscure reality, and put a barrier between the wearer and those that he or she looks at.

He knows that this barrier, the one of death, is enough. Far more than enough, when he deduces how John is _feeling_, or at least the best he can do on that subject. Sherlock has gotten, or rather, _had_, gotten better in that area after John came around. He's still got some of that knowledge – Molly helps without knowing when she checks up on him – but it's _different_ without John every day.

Every day is different. If John told him this two years ago, Sherlock would say something to the effect of, "Obvious," but John would not mean the differences in the temperature, the wind, the cycles relating to science. He would mean something more human; something that not even Mrs. Hudson had been able to make him notice. Again, now it was only Molly that kept that bit of him alive, though it was fading still. Slow but steady. That was when he decided to see if going _near_ John would help him.

It did, in some way. He could probably explain the science of it, the chemistry, but only if he tried. He didn't. He saved it for when he went back to his new flat, when he looked through a two-year-old microscope and experimented with substances in two-year-old beakers and test tubes. Sherlock had not been able to go a day without _something_ to keep his mind occupied, now that he didn't have cases.

But when he started to talk sometimes as if John was there, that was when Sherlock paused for a cigarette. He knew that he should still be using the patches, that John would berate him for it, but that was _it._ John was not here. He was alone for days at a time until Molly came to check up on him, and she would come more often if he hadn't convinced her otherwise. If she came _too _often, people would wonder why she kept doing so, especially because, well, Sherlock was not in a neighborhood that a woman like Molly would usually frequent. The flat itself had been abandoned for a few years, and only when Sherlock came to stay did Molly get the place fixed up on the inside so that it was livable.

"It once belonged to my parents," she had said as he inspected the place. Sherlock hadn't verbally answered her, because of course, he'd known already. He merely nodded, his eyes scanning the entirety of the room.

"You fetched my possessions?"

She had turned on her heel, studying him closely, "Yes, the ones you said were all right to take."

"The ones that John won't notice missing."

"Right – right. They're… in the bedroom."

Her voice had cracked. Sherlock blinked, knowing that yes, she was upset. But why? He was alive, and she had helped him make it a reality. The very real blood on his face, but not his own. The help from the homeless network, all of it. And she had sealed it with her medical report, and he with his wish for no funeral. Just a closed casket burial.

He had even watched it, his own burial. From that same spot amongst the trees, hands steepled and touching his lips. Everything so perfectly arranged, except for the wild card: John. That was the only reason Sherlock had gone, to watch his wild card. Thinking _objectively_ and without feeling, he could say it was interesting. Fascinating. Wild cards usually were because you didn't know what they were going to do.

After several minutes, a stray thought, not even his own, came to him there – _can you even feel at all, Sherlock? _He could, he could – he'd done so on the rooftop, those tears. But the voice nagged at him, and it was John's. John had the bigger heart, much bigger. Still Sherlock did not cry again, but he did feel, and he felt it in his chest. He _could_ feel because if he could not, he would not have saved Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, or John from being killed. _His only friends._

To have friends one must feel. But he also had a rationality and logic to him that he could use to distance himself, remove himself from _feeling _when he needed to. He had no use for feeling in cases, but was this just another case? He felt in some ways it was, but it wasn't. Well, he had to have _something_ to occupy his mind without any cases like what he and John had tackled together.

Sometimes he _did_ write out text messages to John on his mobile phone, discussing this case, because it was at least one for John if he just _observed._ But he didn't send them, because that would make it too easy. And too hard, as well.

_This side of London is boring. –SH_

_I don't miss Molly; though if I told her that she would probably cry. You know her, John. –SH_

_Mycroft doesn't visit me anywhere near as much as you do. –SH_

_I get updates from the homeless network on you. Stand up a bit straighter. –SH_

_You didn't see me today when I walked by you. You still do not observe as you should. –SH_

_But maybe that was for the best. I can't come out of hiding just yet. –SH_

_Yes. Keep being unobservant for now, John. –SH_

_I wonder who you're talking to on your mobile now. You're smiling more. –SH_

_It's still boring here, John. –SH_

_You would have a row with me for smoking again, wouldn't you? –SH_

_Molly does keep me from them as best as she can, but the homeless network still gets some to me. She's annoyed with me. –SH_

But sometimes, he just shuts off his phone and puts it away. Sometimes when he realizes how futile it is to write out texts and never send them. His drafts is piled high of words that he would never say if it had not been for John in the first place.

Sometimes, though, he does open the phone only to glance at the top draft.

_Keep being the wild card. –SH_


End file.
